


Just Forget the World

by Sildominarin



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:57:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4670954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sildominarin/pseuds/Sildominarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn't much Illya wouldn't face, to give the ones he loves a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Forget the World

The grate was too narrow for him.

 

His size had always differentiated Illya Kuryakin from others in his profession. There were other KGB agents who were as large or larger than him, but they did not have his mind, his skill set. They did not have the driving shame of a thieving father or desperate mother that forced him constantly to be the best at what he did. It was a stick his handlers all too often beat him with, but the scars had made him tough. Granted it had altered his control on his temper and self control, but those had their uses as well. Still, at the end of the day it was his size that had given him a chance despite his heritage, and what had continued to serve him well once he'd proven himself.

 

And it was that size that had, this time, gotten him in trouble. He was not lean and sleek, built on Napoleon Solo's jaguar like frame. Nor did he have Gaby's almost cat like grace and flexibility. Illya was a wolf, broad shouldered and built on sturdy muscular lines. And those shoulders, which could tear a car to shreds and lift the majority of a motorcycle over his head, were not going to fit into the narrow ventilation shaft of the THRUSH facility. Not like his partners, who had slunk in as easily as greased hogs and then turned back to look at him. He had told him to go, that it would be easier to get himself out without having to worry about two people at his back. And they had believed him, had trusted his performance in the past to carry him through the place unharmed.

 

(They had still been worried of course, and Gaby had scrutinized his face for a solid minute before wriggling through the metal. Solo had taken more convincing, and as Illya had turned to work on the cell door the thief’s hand had caught at his jacket. For all the suave casual tones in Napoleon's voice as he spoke, Illya was almost positive there was a touch of worry in the other man's eyes.

 

"You've got ten hours, peril, and then we bring in the cavalry."

 

"Will take all ten hours if you do not leave, cowboy." His tone had been full of it's usual gruff stoicism, but there had been something in it that had made the CIA operative chuckle before following their third member toward safety.)

 

Of course, he'd known escape was unlikely. The facility was massive and their cell was almost dead center and four stories underground. It would take an army to get out, and that would bring the guards too close to where Napoleon and Gaby would be exiting. Instead, the KGB agent had done his best to be enough of a distraction to bring all the cameras on him, laying waste to the guards that surrounded him with fist and foot and one of the pipes that had come out of the wall of his cell. His overall goal was not victory but attention and damage, and in the ten minutes of all out brawling before enough guards had gathered to sedate him he knew that he had given his team every advantage he could before everything went dark.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

He woke, groggy from sedation and an already unpleasant concussion, to find himself strapped firmly to a stronger version of a dentist’s chair. The light in the room was dim, only a bare bulb somewhere above his head, and the former KGB agent couldn’t help but feel annoyed at the cliche set up. Granted, that annoyance was tempered by a very professional looking instrument tray attached to the chair.

An exploratory struggle against the bonds had a numerous bruises announcing their existence, and the Russian could guess what happened. Beatings were a fairly common tactic for interrogation- the often served as a good baseline for pain in a subject- and Illya cursed internally. THRUSH had clearly decided to get an early start for his questioning and administered the beating while he was still unconscious. It meant that he hadn’t been able to maneuver his body to lessen any damage, or be able to feel in the moment what was damaged.

He was tied down with thick leather straps, each with a padlock on the ends, and those were problematic. Whoever THRUSH had hired was good at their jobs, as each of the restraints was located in such a way as to give him no leverage for escape. He’d had exercises like that in Survival School in his youth, but without much success—even the most well-toned bodies had their limits.

There must had been cameras in the room- it would have been foolish not to have them- for just as Illya had begun his first solid strain against the band across his chest the door on the far side of the room swung open.

And a nightmare came out.

Carlos de la Solva had a file as tall as Illya’s hand, and was wanted by nine countries for any number of crimes. His talents were legendary among those who valued such things, but most governments considered him untouchable. Even the KGB- who often recruited unsavory individuals- had a shoot on site order. The aftermath of his work could make seasoned interrogators ill, and his crowning feature was that he never left a 'client' until he was done with them.

And that, through the rising dread in his stomach, was a comfort to Illya. Even in the highly unlikely scenario that Napoleon and Gaby were recaptured, De la Solva would not leave him to start on them until he was finished. And every moment THRUSH waited for Illya to tell them where his partners had gone was another minute they had. Another minute to get away and, if nothing, get in contact with UNCLE before Napoleon's ten hour ultimatum had come and gone. Which it was possible, in his sedation, that he was past that ultimatum. But Illya's internal clock told him that it had only been two hours at the most, and that he had to hold on for eight more. He could say nothing to them, give them nothing, until his team had stopped waiting for them. He trusted Waverly to pull them at that point, to see the futility of what they were doing and--

A hand in his hair pulled the Russian from his reverie, and his head was almost gently tilted back to meet the eyes of a snake in a man's face.

"Mr. Kuryakin." De la Solva's tone was miid for a man, with just a hint of aristocratic Spanish around the vowels. "I must say it is an honor to have you in my chair. You're not my first KGB agent, of course, but I do have high hopes that you will be my best."

The first fingernail was ripped out of his thumb with no warning, and Illya could not swallow a sharp inhale at the pain. It pleased the man in front of him, which was frustrating, but the next four pulls elicited no reaction. The KGB training would carry him only so far, however, and the UNCLE agent forced his mind to come up with a better distraction then the pain.

And it gave him Napoleon and Gaby.

He still wasn't sure that what they were doing was right- homosexuality was a crime behind the iron curtain, even though at Gaby was female- but he had stopped caring. Napoleon had a silver tongue when he wanted to, so it had only taken him a few weeks to break down Illya's barrier enough to make the Russian accept a kiss. And after that the slope had been well oiled. Gaby and Solo together were an unstoppable force, and their slow and gentle persuasions had broken down his every barrier, every reservation. He had finally given up control to them only a month ago, in a Swiss chalet so separated from the world as to be almost a dream. It had been a joy unlike any he had ever experienced, to watch Napoleon's slick veneer vanish as Illya had-slowly, oh so slowly- accepted the man's cock. Gaby had been resting her chin on his shoulder, murmuring encouragement and comfort in turns as the American had taken what was offered.

And taken, and taken, until the two were so imprinted on Illya's soul as to never be scrubbed away. It was a warmth in him, always present deep in the soul he had almost thought lost, that grew and grew until it had overshadowed the already weakening loyalty to the Sickle and Hammer. They had been his defection, even if only in spirit, and Illya could not fight it. Would not, if he had the chance.

But more than that, whatever he held for them-felt for them- was the only balm he was going to get. He focused on the soft sounds of their voices in the dark, of the way Napoleon had to be all but dragged away from art galleries and museums. Of the lithe strength in Gaby's hands as they held chess pieces, listening to him instructions and learning the game. How they both had memorized his tapestry of scars, each kiss or soft touch a promise that he would not have to fight alone anymore. As his hands and feet were stripped of nails, as he lost two of his back molars, as his torturer laid the first of many small knives against the soft skin of his inner thigh, Illya Kuryakin focused only on the two people in the world for whom he could truly say the pain was worth it.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

It had been fifteen hours until UNCLE could effect a rescue.

Seven of his ten hour ultimatum had passed before Napoleon had even arrived back in the town they had been snatched from. Their hotel reservations had been for a week, and so it was a relief to find his luggage still intact, and to shower the grime that sneaking through air vents and alpine forests invariably collected The signs of Gaby having beaten him there were present, and by the time he stepped out of the shower she was sitting at the breakfast bar with a plethora of room service. They'd split up outside the base to force any search parties to divide their forces as well, and relief made him shaky as they embraced each other.

"Gott sei Dank, Napoleon, ich war so besorgt."

"I know. I'm sorry." Pressing a kiss to her hair Napoleon held her close, breathing in her scent. He always hated to make her worry, though in this case it couldn't be helped. "Where's the Red Peril?"

And the way she stiffened in her arms answered before she spoke. "He wasn't here when I came in. I had hoped...."

She trailed off, and the American shook his head. "He didn't come in when I was here either." The sun had set more than an hour before, and streets once bathed in gold were now dark and oppressive. Unwelcoming, in a way, and even harder to escape through a forest in. They both knew Illya's chances on his own were not as good, and neither really trusted him not to do something foolish to better their odds of survival. The ventilation shaft had been their only real chance of escape and all three had known it, but somehow Napoleon had been sure that Illya would find a way out.

"We have to call home, I think." Gaby's voice wasn't quite steady, but there was steel underneath the nerves that made him smile. For all that she had never really been an agent she was tougher than she looked, and her partners had gone to great lengths to teach her what she needed to know.

But the delay that followed their report in strained even Napoleon's experienced patience, and by the time they had joined the UNCLE team they were both tense as coiled springs. They were placed with the second ten man team and sent to clear the lower facilities and the underground warehouse while the second team took the upper area and perimeter. There was a no mercy clause for THRUSH, and any figure who got in their way and didn't have their hands up was shot on sight. It was a fast and brutal operation, but no one in the team would lose sleep over it.

By the time they reached the lowest area of the facility Gaby could all but feel a prickling in her scalp. Something was wrong, very wrong, and instinctively she knew Illya was close. A fast glance at Napoleon confirmed that he shared her fear, and as the men paired off to start kicking in doors they headed to the last door in the hallway. Napoleon- the more agile of the two- went low and Gaby took the high road, and the steel panel groaned briefly against their combined force before falling to the ground.

The man who stood over the macabre dentist chair had a small, almost delicate blow torch in his hand. He looked up just in time to catch a bullet in his throat- Gaby, her marksmanship blossoming under Illya's guidance- and stomach-- Napoleon, who would always go for the body shot. He crumped tot he ground with a wet gurgling sound, and had bled his last before the two could reach him. Not that either had any attention to spare him; they were too transfixed by the figure in the chair.

There was blood on Illya's mouth and on his shirt and even in his hair, and for one terrible moment Napoleon feared that the Russian was bleeding into his lungs and was beyond help. But the two white molars on the tray answered at least one of the source, and the thief had to swallow several times before he managed to control his stomach and begin to work on the bindings.

Illya's eyes were open but glassy as Gaby gently stroked his face, and she tried not to focus on the sheer extent of the torture. It was hard, though, when every open inch of his body seemed to have been sliced into. There was a vicious burn along the top of his thigh and from the odd shape of his hands most of his fingers were broken. Not that the mechanic was sure she could check-- the sight of the manged fingertips had her weeping silently even as she helped Napoleon with the rest of the heavy restraints. The KGB agent had not blinked or shifted or even acknowledged their presence when the medics arrived to load him on a stretcher, and there was no change on the seemingly endless helicopter flight into Keflavik. Waverly was waiting at the hospital for them, and while he said nothing the brief riase of his eyebrows seemed to tell their own story at how truly bad Illya's condition was.

And yet, for all that, the wait for news was not very long. While no major surgery would be required there were countless small procedures that needed to be done, and the other two agents were kindly but firmly informed that there was little they could do at the hospital. On Waverly's orders they retired to a secured hotel suite where each showered again, and spent a restless night wrapped around each other and wishing for the third.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The same sterile medical smell that had lulled Illya's mind into finally shutting down was the same awareness that brought him back. The world glowed overbright in the way that it only ever did on morophine, and if that was not cue enough then the terrible pain that had wracked his body was tone tamed to a dull ache. He was bandaged seemingly from head to toe, and the fact that it took his eyes almost a solid minute to focus on the IV needles in his hand seemed to point to at least a mild concussion. In all it was not the worst he had even experienced, but his time with De la Solvo had not done him any favors.

Part of his mind flinched away from the memory of the man, and yet the other presented him with the slightly glassy, fuzzy memory of his interrogator collapsing to the floor in front of the chair. That he was free of he facility was obvious, but it spoke to how off his game he was that Napoleon walking into the room made him sag-relieved- into the pillow. There was no time for pleasantries once the American saw that his eyes were open, and Illya could not force himself to be anything but grateful that the man knew exactly how to be gentle and yet still desperate in his affections. 

Illya's forehead was perhaps the only place on his body completely uninjured, and Napoleon kissed him there first, gently. The press of those lips was almost enough to make the Russian weep, but he clung to what little self control he had left and only closed his with a long sigh.

Which was apparently the worst thing he could do right as Gaby was walking in the door. His arm and shoulder were suddenly alight with pain as she grabbed his arm, panic in her voice. Even Napoleons breath had quickened slightly, the only sign of fear he would allow himself in the moment.

"Illya? Illya!?"

HIs eyes snapped back open with a hiss and a noise of pain, and in an instant they were both against the wall. Guilt painted his partner's faces, but it took a moment or so for the KGB agent to collect himself enough to speak. To his annoyance the words were slurred at first, and he had to force himself to try again, harder.

"Is..is not so bad." His hands shifted slightly, as much invitation as he could manage with his pain level. "You are both unharmed, yes?"

"Of course, Peril." The veneer was back in Napoleon's voice as he moved back to the bed, fingering the sleeve of Illya's hospital gown with mock distaste. Gaby settled for gently smooth the wrinkles out of the blanket as it rested against the mattress, worry and distress in every line of her face. AS much as it hurt- and oh, it hurt- Illya moved his right hand over a few inches to cover hers, forcing her to look at him.

"Is not so bad."

"If you say that again, Kuryakin--" The tears flowing down her cheeks belied the anger in her voice, and Illya gave her the best smile he could with his mouth in the condition that it was. He was battered, bruised, torn to ribbons-- but it truly wasn't so bad. Giving it up for a necessary sacrifice he caught Napoleons hand with his free one and leaned back into the welcome embrace of morophine and the bed.

"Is not so bad--if you both stay."

And he felt their affirmation-and love, though less than a year ago he never would have believed it- as they both settled in the uncomfortable medical chairs and never left his side.


End file.
